


In the In-between

by Wrathernice



Series: Held In Trust [3]
Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F, Gen, One-Shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:35:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21569260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathernice/pseuds/Wrathernice
Summary: Myka hadn't set out to like Greer Thomson. (Or MacGowan or whatever she's going by these days.) In fact, she's been pretty determined to hate her. But after three months of occasionally escorting her to the store or the library or the bank... She really doesn't want to like her, okay? It's the principle of the thing. Things had finally been calming down, H.G. had finally come back, they had at last been settling into their old, familiar rhythms.Her heart had started to heal again.And then, out of nowhere... BOOM. There was a tiny new Scottish majordomo in the Warehouse, and things changed. Again.Note: This is a collection of one-shots set in the slight AU ofHeld In Trust,in the six months after the end of that story. When I add chapters, I will be doing so chronologically, so a chapter’s placement may change.
Relationships: Helena "H.G." Wells/Original Female Character
Series: Held In Trust [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1554469
Comments: 7
Kudos: 7





	1. To Keep Busy

Greer wakes from her first (spotty) sleep at the B&B and promptly has no idea what to do with herself. Yes, there are boxes by the door, only a couple of small ones since all she'd really wanted were her clothes and Artie's gifts. But she doesn't want to look at them now, and instead finds her way downstairs to the kitchen, where the coffee is freshly made, and pours herself a cup.

“There's half and half in the fridge, and sugar in that cupboard above,” Abigail says from behind her, and she jumps. “Sorry! I didn't think I could sneak up on you.”

Greer regards her with bleary eyes and grunts, meant to say _It's alright._ She holds the cup up a little and says, “Thanks fer makin' this.”

“We go through several pots a day, there's pretty much always some. And you're always welcome to make more if you want it.”

“Good to know.” Greer nods at her and exits, finds her coat and gloves and hat, and sits out on the patio. Perhaps in February it's too cold to be out there, but even in winter the garden is beautiful, and being outside is a novelty that hasn't lost its charms yet. She wraps her hands around the mug, closing her eyes at the warm bloom in her gloves, and breathes in the sharp air, sipping occasionally. She's dimly aware of Abigail, now she's paying attention, who has taken up residence in the room on the other side of the glass doors. Probably to keep an eye on her. Greer understands; to the Regents, she's still a gamble.

But she's here, isn't she? She's spent her first night outside the Warehouse, and made it through. Somewhat. The unfamiliar lines of her new room feel strange, corners ending and bending too soon or not soon enough or at the wrong angle. She'd had to move the lamp to under the tiny writing desk to get the right light level for sleeping. After her crowded little space at the Warehouse, it had seemed too large inside, too sparse.

She opens her eyes when she realizes that she doesn't have to do anything today, if she doesn't want to. She could go back to bed, or poke around in the big house and discover all its rooms, or even switch on the television-- though she probably won't do that. Now she's free, there's a degree of restlessness in her bones; sitting still for long enough to watch a movie sounds uncomfortable.

It's no shock when Artie finds her waiting outside the Warehouse, Abigail's sedan disappearing over the ridge, holding a to-go cup and looking lost.

“I dinna know what to do wi' myself,” she complains, now perched in a chair next to Artie, empty bowl in front of her. “I'm always after keeping busy.”

Artie smiles at her, perhaps a bit sadly. “I know.” He reaches across the short space and lays a hand atop hers, comforting. “The Regents filled me in. You can tag along on inventory?” he suggests, taking his hand back. “H.G. and Myka are out on a ping, but--”

“They are?” Greer asks, alarmed. “Do you really think that's the best idea?”

“They've gotta work it out sometime,” Artie says grimly, face set.

“They could get hurt!”

“Anyone can get hurt when it comes to hunting artifacts. You know that's true. So, they're gonna save each other's behinds and bond and get over it. Or else.”

Greer rests her head in her hands briefly to hide her stricken expression. “If ye say so.” Helena in danger, Helena not returning from assignment.. it's too much to think about. She's only just got free. “Fine, what's on the list today?”

They enter the stacks together, straightening crooked artifacts and updating old entries and, for Greer's part, evaluating the vibrations as they go. It's a series of boring tasks, given that nobody's acting up, but it's nice; Greer so rarely has time to spend with Artie that isn't punctuated by Farnsworth calls and dashing off to save the day. They talk about Dr. Calder and Greer gets it out of him about the appendix ruse and laughs and laughs, so hard she has to sit on the floor to catch her breath back. Artie shushes her, but she can see the fond eyes and faraway gaze peeking through the embarrassment as he remembers, and approves.

Steve and Pete never show up, and Artie shrugs. “They wanted a day, so I let them take one.” He smiles over at her after a moment. “I figured after the excitement of yesterday..”

 _Only yesterday,_ Greer thinks with wonder. It already feels like days ago; now that she has all this time ahead of her, the rate of it has slowed in her perceptions.

Artie answers a call, Myka on the other end. “I know the software is almost always right, Artie, but we're not finding anything weird. Apparently Mrs. Cove has been working herself up to a nervous breakdown for months, and nobody around here is surprised.”

Artie sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Do me a favor and stay overnight. If you're not seeing anything in the police reports or the news by noon tomorrow, come on home.” He snaps the Farnsworth, looking put out. “See? They're fine.” He groans. “And now I have to write a report explaining why I sent them. Damn.”

“Chin up,” Greer says, feeling more cheerful. “It'll be a short one, at least, once ye get their statements in.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, tucking the Farnsworth back in his bag.

Myka and Helena are just as displeased as Artie is. Myka shoots a look at H.G., shutting her own Farnsworth and pocketing it. “I guess we better find the nearest fleabag.”

It only takes Helena a moment to contextualize, her lips pursing. “Delightful.” This mission has been terribly awkward; they're in Minnesota, not far enough to fly, and the car ride had been torture. And, Helena knows, they will have to occupy the same room, because the paper-pushers don't allow separate rooms when agents share a gender. She considers paying for her own, but decides the attention to her financials would be unwise. “Lead the way.”

The trip is blissfully short; they're in a small town, and everything seems to be within shouting distance. They don't speak until they're in the room, which doesn't even have a desk or a chair in which Helena can take up residence, only beds and a small television and a bathroom. Even then, it takes a while, and it's Myka who breaks the silence.

“This really sucks.” She's carefully not looking at H.G., instead pretending to smooth wrinkles from her suit jacket as she hangs it. “I don't know why Artie put us together on this.”

“Yes you do,” Helena says from her place on the bed, back against the headboard. “As do I.”

“Okay, fine, I know why. It still sucks.” Myka can't find any more fake creases, and reluctantly turns in Helena's direction. She hesitates a moment, then says, trying to inject humor, “At least they didn't try to give us a queen.”

“At least.” Helena is feeling wary; the last time they had broached the subject of the tension between them, she'd ended up upside down and much too far from the ground. She takes comfort that there are no artifacts here.

Myka crosses to sit on the other bed, sighing heavily and leaning her elbows on her knees, posture slumped. She's staring into a middle distance, and Helena can tell from her eyes that she's debating what to say, or whether to say anything at all. Finally, she looks up and says with an expression that doesn't match, “You seem happier these days.”

“I am.” Helena pauses, considering her own hands a moment before meeting Myka's eyes again. “And you are not.”

“No,” Myka breathes out, dropping her gaze to the carpet. “I'm not.”

Neither of them can bring themselves to say anything more, the discomfort hanging heavy in the air between them. It is a long night, and they remain silent-- beyond the necessities-- throughout the drive home.


	2. Mirrored

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter there are two mentions of rape, and one mention of self-harm. These mentions are not physically descriptive, but may be emotionally triggering due to the surrounding circumstances. Please skip if your mental health needs you to.

Greer and Helena are in the Englishwoman's room upstairs, lying side by side on the bed. It's easier for Greer to be with only one person-- the person she's come to trust most-- than in the fracas that occupies the living room in the evenings. She has still made a point to join them-- she genuinely enjoys their dynamic-- but not _too_ often. It's only been three days, and she has her limits.

So instead, she is on her back, gazing up contentedly into Helena's face, which is framed, as usual, by the Englishwoman's black waterfall of hair as the other woman looks down at Greer, elbows holding her up.

Greer reaches up a hand and tucks the strands that have been tickling her cheek away behind Helena's ear, and she can't stop the gentle smile that curves her lips. “Thank ye for hiding out with me.”

“Of course,” Helena says, eyes closing briefly at the touch. “You did seem a little overwhelmed.”

Greer grunts in acknowledgment. “It was alright until they started rocketing about the room,” she murmurs, frustrated.

“Hey,” Helena says, leaning down the short distance to grant a small, reassuring kiss. “Don't expect too much of yourself. This is a sizable adjustment.”

She tries to straighten again, but Greer pulls her back down, eyes flashing playfully before sliding a hand behind Helena's neck to keep her close. Greer smiles against Helena's lips as she hears the small stutter of her breath. “I like this better anyhow.” She feels Helena go pliant against her as her other fingers tease at the tiny patch of skin showing between the hemline of Helena's trousers and her button-down.

“I'm finding I agree,” Helena murmurs, breathless as she melds against Greer's petite frame. “We shall have to be--” She gasps at the feel of teeth on the lobe of her ear. “Quiet,” she finishes shakily, head spinning.

“I can be quiet, as ye know,” Greer whispers, a hand rucking up Helena's top to glide along her spine, pleased when she hears a small moan sigh from Helena's throat. “But I think for you, it'll be--”

She's stopped dead by Helena's lips on her own, demanding, begging her to just _shut up and touch me._ Clothes are removed-- judging by Helena's frustrated mutterings, not quickly enough-- and finally, they are skin to skin. The door isn't locked, but neither of them cares to spare a moment to think about it, too busy tracing pathways they've only just begun to learn.

Helena, in the end, is only quiet because Greer's lips and tongue keep her too busy and the sounds have nowhere else to go. When she judges it safe, Greer lets herself down from shaky arms and collapses to the bed beside her, breathing only a little hard, arms akimbo alongside her head and hair-- long come loose from its bun-- covering her face where it rests sideways on the comforter.

She looks through it to Helena, whose eyes are still closed and whose pulse is throbbing noticeably in her neck. Greer enjoys this view: The ever-composed Englishwoman, naked and undone by her hand, breath coming irregular and heavy in the aftermath. Greer lets her eyes rove in the well-lit room, the overhead still on, taking in the stretch marks along Helena's belly and the sweet curve of hipbones and how they flow into thighs, appreciating the mound of her breasts and the wide set of her shoulders and the occasional mole. “Too damn beautiful,” Greer says, almost ruefully, into the quiet.

Helena turns on her side to face Greer, her smile the most shy and vulnerable thing Greer has ever seen on her. “I'm glad you think so.” She moves the cloud of brown hair back so she can have a better look. “There. Now I can see your face.” Her eyes are clearing now, becoming more aware of their surroundings, and she gazes at Greer idly, studying her much like Greer had just done, until she spots something on the other woman's bicep.

Greer can see the moment she keys onto the scars, and takes a deep breath, readying herself. For what, she doesn't know yet, but she finds that she can't speak up and head it off. Even so many decades later, it's too difficult. She almost wishes the light had been low, like before, so that Helena wouldn't see, but she knows it would have only been a matter of time.

Helena's fingers are tracing them, lightly at first and then more firmly, row after neat row puckering Greer's skin like pale tally marks from elbow to shoulder. “What did they do to you?” Her voice is at its deadliest calm, her face blank as a statue's. “The Regents. Tell me.”

“It wasna the Regents,” Greer says, avoiding Helena's fiery eyes, which she can't seem to keep neutral.

“Agents? _Agents_ did this?” Helena sits up suddenly, drawing her legs up and leaning on an arm, her mask faltering around the brows. Oh, how hard it is to keep her face clear at this moment, when she is already plotting how to get around the restrictions on her access to personnel files to find the children or grandchildren of whichever _disgusting_ excuses for government agents had marked Greer in such a way. “Tell me their names.”

“There are no names, not for that,” Greer murmurs, closing her eyes; she can't watch Helena's face as it cracks.

“The year, then. _I will find them.”_

“No, ye won'.” Greer has her own empty expression on, now. If she keeps her face blank, she can't feel the distress as strongly. “It was 1948, and I was desperate. This was after my escape attempt, and besides shelving that poor little girl's body I hadna been out of the bronze in over twenty years.” There is a silence, and the angry vibrations around Helena's person change frequency, dimming a bit. “I wasna trustworthy, so they didna let me alone for a second, unless I was in my room. They locked me in at night, took me out only to do inventory. Sometimes I had to relieve myself in a bowl because they didna show up to take me to the toilet. There was one, he...” She opens her eyes and shakes her head, unable to say it aloud. Eyes on the ceiling, she manages, “I had the tattoos by then. He couldna be fought.”

Helena's anger is back, and Greer can feel her weighty gaze boring into the side of her face. Before Helena can interrupt, she continues, needing to get it all out. “My room was nothing more than a bed and a sink, then. I didna have any books, or anything, and..” She sighs, resisting the urge to close her eyes again, though she can't bring them to meet Helena's. “It was the only thing that made me feel as if I had any control at all.”

Helena's fingers are worrying the scars again, and after a long moment, she says, dire comprehension in her voice, “This is your left arm. And you're right-handed.”

“Aye.” There is a long time of quiet, long enough that Greer looks over at Helena's face to judge her reaction. There are no words for what she sees there, but if she could get close, she'd say heartbreak, or horror. Or perhaps grief. Greer cannot stand the continuing silence, so she asks, carefully, “Tell me your mind?”

Helena gives a scoff, an ugly expression traveling across her face before it is shut down. She swallows, then says, “When I was twenty-five, I met a man at one of the parties my brother hosted, in celebration for 'his' new book. I, of course, attended, because it would have been unspeakably rude to beg off. And that man pursued me.” Her upper lip twitches in a ghost of a sneer. “My brother, of course, urged me to make the match, because having me at home was getting in the way of his _fame._ Many young women thought to attach themselves to my brother, seeing his success, and he did not like that I was the deserving recipient of those.. accolades. I reminded him by my mere presence that he was a sham.”

Greer reaches up to touch Helena's face, but Helena jerks her head away in a flinch. “I refused the match, and the man who wanted me did not take well to it,” she murmurs, voice quietly caustic, “and the only good thing to come of it, the best thing in my life, was born the next May. You don't have anything so beautiful as a consolation. So,” she says, looking up at the ceiling to keep the tears from falling, “that is my mind.”

“I have my life,” Greer reminds her, stilling her hands when they want to reach for Helena; she does not want to cross another boundary. “The whole of it ahead of me, because of you. That is enough.” Which isn't true. There is so much that she has missed, but mentioning it now will not help.

Helena remains silent, and Greer quietly stands, reaching for her clothes from the floor and slipping them on. She finishes dressing and sits next to Helena on the bed, not touching, but close enough that the Englishwoman can lean if she wants. “I sense that ye dinna tell that story to anyone. Do ye?”

“No.”

“Then I thank ye for the privilege of yer trust. I willna break it.”

Helena leans against her then, and they spend some time in the quiet, together and apart.


	3. Observant

Myka hadn't set out to like Greer Thomson. (Or MacGowan or whatever she's going by these days.) In fact, she's been pretty determined to hate her. But after three months of occasionally escorting her to the store or the library or the bank... She _really_ doesn't want to like her, okay? It's the principle of the thing. Things had finally been calming down, H.G. had finally come back, they had at last been settling into their old, familiar rhythms.

Her heart had started to heal again.

And then, out of nowhere... _BOOM._ There was a tiny new Scottish majordomo in the Warehouse, and things changed. Again.

Myka is the most observant person she knows. It's not ego, it's just true. So when H.G. gave Greer look after look, and she was gone from the B&B more often, staying later at the Warehouse, started staring off into space and smiling to herself when she didn't think anyone was looking, and most of all, stopped spending as much time with Myka and started putting distance between them... Myka had noticed.

But Greer is unfailingly, disgustingly kind to everyone she meets. Bank tellers, cashiers, random guys mopping the floors.. she has a smile for them all, even when she's not in a good mood. She holds the door for old ladies and waves at toddlers, and never, ever snaps at someone for being slow or not understanding what she asks. (Which happens a lot. She's still catching up with the world, and her accent can get kinda strong sometimes.) So the first time Myka hears Greer bitch under her breath about a fellow (rude) customer in the grocery store with some even ruder words, she has to stifle a surprised laugh, because something about the way Greer phrases it is _funny._

Myka knows that Greer knows that she doesn't want to like her. Myka is never the first person Greer asks for anything. Greer subtly leaves rooms that Myka enters, though Greer doesn't ever shoot her dirty looks when she does or, in fact, treat her badly in any way. Myka sees how careful she is to speak the same to her as anyone else.

(Well, not _anyone_ else. H.G. is the exception. But Myka can't stop herself from understanding that; H.G. is always her exception, too.)

She doesn't want to soften when she sees Greer in the library at home, reading one of Myka's favorite old books. She doesn't want to notice how reverently Greer treats books in general. (She does anyway. She notices everything.)

She notices how Greer looks at her sometimes, like someone working out a puzzle.

Myka sees how everyone else around her loves spending time with Greer. Once the shell shock of being out in the world had worn off a little, Greer began to show an astonishing capacity for humor and quick-witted comebacks, and her storytelling is-- Myka hates to admit-- captivating. Greer has a memory for detail that also shows itself in her questions of the other agents. 'Did your sister land that new job?' 'Did you ever find that film you were looking for?' 'Since you mentioned you liked this artist...' She watches how Pete lights up when Greer asks him for a crash course on comic books, and how Claudia babbles excitedly at her about the mix CDs she's made for her (the Caretaker's attempt to update Greer's taste from classical-only.)

She notices when Greer's eyes lose focus and her face grows misty during group hangouts, sometimes. She doesn't talk about her family much, though there is a framed photo of her parents on her nightstand that never has a speck of dust. It had appeared about two weeks after Greer had come to occupy her own room at the B&B, the morning after one of the nights where there was no light from under H.G.'s door. (H.G. always has a light on at night. Since the bronze, she's been afraid of the dark. Not that Myka had ever asked that, but.. she can guess.)

And that's the problem. There is rarely a time where Greer and H.G. aren't together. Myka sees them at the table on the patio, hands linked and dangling between their chairs. She sees the private smiles and the casual touches on the shoulder and the way H.G. is always watching Greer for the signs of a panic attack.

Myka heard the muffled sobs that echoed from Greer's room the first couple nights, the too-fast breathing and the trips to the bathroom for water. She sees how Greer's hands shake, when they're out and about and something she's not expecting happens. She notices that sometimes, Greer has to go and be by herself when all of them are hanging around together and laughing too loud. And damnit, she understands that, too.

Myka doesn't want to like Greer, but she's starting to, and that's really bumming her out because it would be so much easier to hate the person who gets to love Helena. _She_ was supposed to get to love Helena. She just kept putting it off, telling herself, _Not yet, the timing isn't right._ And now, nothing's right.

She can't even get mad at Greer, not really, because it's H.G., and H.G. is so damn easy to fall in love with. And if she can't get mad at her, then what is she supposed to feel?

“Claud,” she grumps, hands over her face as she flops onto the bed, “how am I supposed to focus when they're snuggling on the couch?”

“You go out and get some hot Univille action?” Claudia suggests, cross-legged at the head of the bed.

“You make that sound so gross. And no one around here wants anything to do with me, or any of us.” It's a genius cover, the IRS thing, but it's hugely inconvenient.

“It's not that far to the next town, you have a car. Or-- hey! Tinder! Swipe yourself into some hunk's bed, then--”

Myka throws a pillow at her face, rolling her eyes. “I am _not_ downloading Tinder. Who's gonna pop up on it out here anyway? Bob from the bike shop? No thanks.”

Claudia smirks, resting her elbows on the pillow, now in her lap. “He _really_ likes you.”

“And I like not being randomly sniffed.” Myka's lip curls. “Also he has a unibrow. Not really my thing.” She sighs, then rolls onto her stomach so she can look at Claudia. “Seriously, I'm dying here.”

“I don't know what to tell you, sweet cheeks. They are _hella_ into each other, and I'm sorry that you missed your shot, really, but they both deserve to be happy.”

“Since when did you get so wise?” Myka asks, annoyed.

“Since I ate a bunch of incense and took a yoga class,” Claudia jokes, nudging Myka's shoulder with her knee. “Hey. It's gonna be okay. They'll get out of the honeymoon phase eventually and then it won't be so in-your-face-y.”

“Good news, it's three months until she's gone.”

“ _If_ she's gone,” Claudia corrects. “She could stay. She has the option.”

“Party pooper.” Myka faceplants into the comforter. “Whmshegnnbessuhdise?”

Claudia pushes at the side of Myka's head until it turns and her mouth is free. “Sorry, repeat?”

“I said,” Myka says, spitting out a piece of her hair, “why's she gotta be so nice?”

“Oh _ho,”_ Claudia says, pointing a finger with a grin. “You don't hate her after all.”

“No, Claud, I don't, and it's becoming a real problem, okay? Because I still get angry and snappy when I see them together, and if I don't hate either one of them then that just makes me an asshole.”

“Look.” Claudia glances around for a second, as if she's checking for spies. “All I'm gonna say is, Abigail was picked for a reason.”

“I don't need a shrink.”

The redhead shrugs, looking doubtful. “If you say so.”


	4. All a Fiction

Myka doesn't want to like Greer, but she's already started, so when she sees the Scot sitting in the library with a pile of papers and a computer, cursing and rubbing her temples, she takes pity.

“Everything okay?” she asks, though she can tell it's not.

Greer looks up, surprised. “No,” she says after a moment, gesturing at her full lap. “I've been trying to apply for university, but the questions are unfamiliar and I'm having trouble with this--” she squints at the screen-- “free application for federal student aid.”

“FAFSAs suck,” Myka agrees, coming to sit (against her better judgment) on the loveseat next to Greer.

“Thing is, I know that I have too much money now to qualify. I found the requirements and I dinna fit them. I wasna planning on asking for loans or whatnot, but this university requires that ye fill it out anyway. And I have to match the information the Regents gave me.” She gestures at the stack of papers on the table next to her. “It's all a fiction, and I havena spent enough time with it to remember.” She scowls. “All the bits of information they ask for are buried deep.”

“Okay,” Myka says after a frantic moment of jealousy fighting sympathy. And anyway, if Greer is applying for colleges, then that means she'll be gone soon; she can be party to that. She waves for Greer to hand her the paper pile and pulls it into her lap. “Let's just go question by question.”

When Helena walks through the B&B an hour later, back from her errand, she can hardly believe her eyes. Myka and Greer are sharing a couch, rolling their eyes in tandem and smirking in amusement. As she watches, Myka makes some gesture with her hands, explaining something. Greer, typing into a laptop, nods a moment, then turns the screen with a questioning look, and Myka examines it, searches through the papers in her lap, and then lets out a triumphant noise when she finds what she's looking for. Greer enters some last thing, then closes the laptop, slumping back in relief; Myka does the same after moving the papers from her lap.

Helena could enter the room and ask, but she decides to let it be, and slips away. If Myka and Greer can forge some kind of friendship, she does not want to ruin the chances by inserting herself into the situation. She does have a tendency to complicate things, after all.


	5. Chapter 5

“Come on in,” says a female voice, and Greer steps through the door into a decently sized office. There is an older blonde woman sitting at a desk; in one corner sits an exam table and various medical equipment. The woman rises from her chair and smiles, reaching her hand out to shake. “I'm Dr. Calder.”

“Ye're Vanessa,” says Greer appraisingly. She's pretty, with steady eyes and a kind smile. “Artie's mentioned you.” Dr. Calder smiles warmly at his name. 

“I am. And I am also sorry this took so long. I should have examined you weeks and weeks ago, but it got lost in the shuffle, I suppose. If it's alright with you, we can get right to it, and then you can go do something more fun.”

“Right,” Greer says uncomfortably. Apparently, now that she's been released, she has to have an exam for liability or some kind of bureaucratic thing. 

“On the table, then. I'll just be listening to your heart and lungs to start.” Dr. Calder casts an evaluating look at her, then pulls out a small drawer that turns out to be a step. “How tall are you?”

“Five and two.” Greer knows intellectually that she's a doctor and needs to know, but it still rankles a bit. 

“I won't subject you to the weight question, I've got a scale.” The doctor starts instructing her on when and how to breathe, then shines light in her eyes and ears and nose and mouth. “All seems well,” she says after she's finished. She steps to a cabinet and pulls out a folded gown. “Now, everyone's favorite part. I'll step out and you can change into this. You can keep your underwear, but please remove everything else. Open the door when you're finished.”

After she steps away, Greer stares at the gown reluctantly. She's sure the doctor is a consummate professional, she is, but she's not in the habit of removing her clothing for virtual strangers. After a few more moments, she hops down from the table, strips, and puts on the gown, which is open at the back. She ties it, knowing she'll probably be asked to untie it, and kicks her clothes into a pile in the corner. The gown gaps in the back, and after she opens the door a crack she walks backward to the table, feeling uncomfortably exposed with the short sleeves and the way it only hangs to her knees. 

“Perfect, thank you,” Dr. Calder says as she walks back in, shutting the door behind her. “Unfortunately, the forms require a pretty complete exam, but I've managed to convince them that a gynecological exam is unnecessary at this time. Though you should get one, at some point, just to be safe. I'll leave that to you.”

Greer puzzles out the roots in the long word after a few moments, and she gazes at the doctor, face suitably horrified. “Gynecological? Is that what I think it is?” She glances down, then back up to make her point.

“Have you never had one?” Vanessa's features crease sympathetically when Greer shakes her head. “Well, they can be a bit scary if you're not prepared. I'll be happy to educate you on the general practices, so that when you decide it's time, you'll be ready.”

“That would be good,” Greer says, though she's not convinced this is true. Pushing it from her mind, she asks instead, “What now?”

Dr. Calder is calm and understanding as she explains-- not talking down, Greer is glad to note-- what she'll be doing. She tests reflexes, has Greer grip her hands and follow a pen with her eyes, and several other neurological checks, palpates Greer's abdomen, and then takes out a small kit from a drawer. “I need to take some blood, for testing.”

Greer nods; she's had this done before, at least. The doctor takes out each item with expert and gloved hands, then pauses when she reaches up to tie the tourniquet, eyes fixed on Greer's upper arm and the scars that line it. She lifts her gaze to Greer, mouth twisting sympathetically. Unlike with Helena, she doesn't ask any questions about their origin. “Any lingering pain there? Issues with muscles functioning properly?” Greer shakes her head. “Well, then. We won't worry about them any more,” Dr. Calder says, tying the rubber around the scars and continuing with her work. 

The rest of the exam goes smoothly; there isn't much left, and it isn't too long before Greer can put her clothes back on. Vanessa promises to call her if there are any abnormal results on the test, but assures her that she appears to be perfectly healthy. She schedules a surgery to take out the half of the little device lodged in her thyroid, as well-- “Artie's been on me about it.” Before Greer leaves the room, though, the doctor stops her with a hand on her shoulder. 

“This is my business card,” she says, handing it to Greer. “When you're ready to have those tattoos removed, you give me a call, and I'll get the process going.”

“They.. ye can take them off?” Greer looks at her with amazed eyes. “And they willna work anymore?”

“Yes. There will be some scarring, of course, but not too severe.”

“Small price to pay,” Greer murmurs, gaze dropping to the business card. When she looks back up at the doctor, there is a kind smile on Vanessa's face. “Thanks.”

“You're very welcome,” she says with a wink, and Greer leaves her office feeling light as air.


	6. Songs Unsung

The first time anyone from the Warehouse hears Greer sing, she's in her bedroom, and-- she thinks-- alone. Everyone had left, anyway, and she had opted to stay in to figure out her new iPod and laptop and get the settings where she wanted them. But Abigail has only run out to the post office, and when she returns, she pauses halfway through the door at the sound of a soprano voice singing in a language she's fairly sure is Gaelic. Not because she's an expert or anything, but because she knows that everyone but the Scot has gone to the Warehouse.

It's clearly a lament, set in the minor key, and the ringing clarity of the high notes gives her chills. But the spell is broken as soon as she shuts the front door behind her. The voice fades at the sound-- it's that weird ability Greer has showing itself-- and Abigail decides to bring it up at one of their now-common sit downs.

The first of these had been pretty tense. Artie had passed on a message from the Regents, who were asking her to meet with Greer regularly to keep an eye on her emotional state. So, she had invited Greer into the study and closed the door behind them.

“ _Well, what is it?” Greer asks, eyebrows drawn as she stands in the middle of the room, arms folded. “I've told Artie I'll be by the Warehouse today.”_

“ _For someone who has been trying to escape that place for a long time, you go back there a lot.”_

_Greer's eyebrows raise dramatically at this, and her expression sours. “What's it to you?”_

_Abigail keeps her shrink-face on-- that's how she's always thought of it, that nice, neutral, pleasant expression-- and says, “I've been asked to check in with you from time to time. To see how you're handling life outside the Warehouse.”_

“ _The Regents,” Greer says, definite bitterness edging her tone._

“ _Yes.”_

“ _Well, I'm no dead or homicidal, I'd say I'm doing pretty well,” Greer says, shrugging. “May I go now?”_

“ _I'd prefer it if you didn't, yet. I don't think it would look good for either of us if my first report is, 'subject is hostile and dismissive', do you?”_

_Greer avoids rolling her eyes with a great effort and grumpily flops into one of the armchairs. “Well, what am I supposed to say?”_

“ _Some people start with a family history--”_

“No.”

_Abigail gives her an appraising look. “That's pretty categorical.”_

“ _If ye like,” Greer says, eyes suspicious._

“ _Why?”_

“ _It's private.”_

_Abigail shrugs, making a mental note to revisit that topic much, much later. “Okay. As I was going to say, there are a lot of places to start, but I think my only real preference is honesty.”_

“ _I honestly would rather be in the Warehouse right now.”_

“ _Why?” Abigail asks, genuinely curious. “Aren't you sick of that place by now?”_

_Greer shrugs uncomfortably. “It's at the least familiar. And quiet. And Artie doesna ask me so many questions.”_

Today is a far cry from that; Greer only appears mildly irritated when Abigail knocks on her open door. “That time again, is it?” she says blandly, setting her laptop aside and gesturing for Abigail to take the desk chair.

“It is,” Abigail confirms, smiling at her. “How have you been doing?”

“Fine,” comes the automatic answer.

“Fine as in passable, fins as in 'I don't want to talk about it'... Plenty of kinds of 'fine' out there.”

“As ye're always sayin',” Greer mutters. “Just trying to get used to my new tech.”

Abigail hears the dismissal and decides to accept it for the moment. “Laptop and.. an iPod, is it?”

“Aye.” Greer has, through Claudia, come to appreciate the cloud and its music capabilities. Playlists were a particularly fun discovery.

“Music is important to you, then?”

“Aye,” Greer says again, more suspiciously this time.

“Yes, it was me who walked in this morning when you were singing.”

“I know.” Greer's voice is chagrined.

“Why didn't you want me to hear you singing?”

“No one else asks me this many questions,” Greer says irritably. “Except Claudia,” she amends, lip quirking. “That girl generates them from her very marrow.”

“Mine come from my degree,” Abigail says mildly, “and you didn't give me an answer.”

Greer sighs, shaking her head. “A dog with a bone, you are,” she says. “I don' sing around anyone.”

“Why not?”

“Agh,” Greer murmurs. “Because I dinna do it.”

“Have you never?”

Greer gives her an exasperated look. “I have.”

“I'm guessing a long time ago?”

Greer's voice is droll as she says, “Pretty much anything of note I ever did was a long time ago.”

Abigail laughs. “Wow, you really don't wanna talk about this.”

“It's private.”

Abigail rolls her eyes. “Haven't heard that one before. So, it's painful, then.”

“Life is pain, or so I've heard.”

“Yours has been.”

“Whose hasna been?”

Abigail is finally beginning to lose her patience. “Let me guess then. Singing was something you did with family. And now they're gone.”

The darkening of Greer's expression tells her she's hit her mark. “It's private,” Greer grates out through a clenched jaw.

Abigail changes tacks; she stands from the chair and smiles sadly at Greer. “I'm sorry it hurts. But I'm glad you haven't given up on music completely.” She walks to the door, then pauses. “You have a beautiful voice. It seems like a shame for no one to ever hear it again.” Then she leaves. Abigail has learned that Greer is a stubborn, prideful person, and when she puts a wall up like that, it's far better to leave her with something to think about rather than keep pushing; If she keeps pushing, Greer will raze the earth. But a planted seed has a chance, at least, to grow.


	7. Chapter 7

“Tell me what you don't miss,” Helena says as they relax on the couch in the B&B living room. She's gazing at Greer with steady, dark eyes edged with curiosity, elbow propped on the couch back and legs across Greer's lap.

“Dresses,” Greer says instantly. “Any kind.”

“Why?” Helena has learned over the last months that Greer's answers are almost never approached how she expects they will be, and she delights in asking.

“All the rustling,” Greer says, continuing that trend. “All that fabric loose, the folds and the trailing and the friction. It's distracting.”

“To your senses, you mean?”

“Aye.” Greer pulls a face. “Even as a wean I hated them. M-- Mam had the damnedest time going about trying to calm me until she sussed it out.”

Helena is used to the occasional stutter when Greer talks about her mother, and doesn't pry at it, though she wants to. “So what did you wear?”

“Dresses,” Greer says sourly, making Helena laugh. “Da said it was alright to wear trousers at home, but anytime I left the house it was always dresses.”

“So if you were to pick an outfit for a fancy event-- now, I mean-- it would not be in an evening gown?”

Greer grimaces, shaking her head. “Absolutely no. They make my skin crawl.”

Helena shoots Greer a devilish look. “I'm not certain whether I should have asked, as I am now picturing you in a suit, and I do admit it's every bit as intriguing as you in a dress. You might say distracting.”

Greer chuckles and pats her knee. “You are distractable, that's true. Never should have taken ye to the workshop when I was trying to actually accomplish something.”

“Listen,” Helena says earnestly, scowling a little. “It's not my fault you left so many projects in the middle.”

“Not all of them were mine, as ye know,” Greer says fondly. “Claudia still tinkers there. She did notice, by the way,” Greer adds, giving Helena's knee a little shove.

“But it was so vastly improved when I was finished with it!”

“And eminently more _flammable,”_ Greer says seriously, “as we discovered.”

Helena does manage to look a _little_ contrite. “Oh... yes, well, I could see that being a risk, if not handled properly.”

“And who didna leave any instructions?” Helena sighs, and Greer gives her one of her half-mouth smiles. “I'm teasing ye. She only lost a third of an eyebrow, anyway, and once she got over it she was on about a new sort of booby-trap.”

Helena shoots her a grin. “Well, that's alright then.”

“Careful, or she'll use it on you so ye'll stop meddling in her workspace.”


	8. Not a Dream Survived

“What's this?” Greer asks, after Helena deposits a small gift-style bag in front of her.

Helena reaches for the bag, extracting the folder and setting it on her lap. “I started a little project,” she begins carefully, watching Greer's face. “I extrapolated some information from what you've told me, about your.. life, before, and--” she shoots a contrite glance-- “what records I could find of you arriving here, and I spent some time going through old archives, births and deaths and employment, and--” She pauses, a small, sad smile on her face. “And I found them. Your parents.”

Greer's breath catches in her throat, and she stares wordlessly at Helena a few moments. “My-- my parents,” she echoes. The tears are already threatening to fall, and she reaches for the folder instinctively.

Helena's hand rests on hers before she can grasp it. “It's not all good news, I'm afraid,” she says gently.

“Never mind that,” Greer rasps, pulling the papers towards her. She opens the folder, eyes falling on the first page. It's a photocopy of a newspaper, and her eyes fall on a highlighted headline buried in the text: _Local girl missing._ Scanning the blurb, her gaze catches on the phrase 'Mr. and Mrs Thomson, of Dorset Lane, have reported their daughter to be missing to local constables' and she looks up, eyes searching Helena's.

“They never stopped looking for you. You can see from--”

Greer's awareness of Helena's words fades as she pages through the papers. Helena has scribed dates on the copies, and she can see that even after the initial buzz had died down, that her parents had continued to put ads in the local papers, dozens of them, every week, then every two weeks, then monthly. _It must have cost them a fortune._ Then, almost a year after her disappearance, the ads stop, and she pages to another article. 'Professor of Engineering James Thomson exhibits student project' says a highlighted caption, and there, in grainy black-and-white, stands her father, proudly gesturing at a group of students and a contraption of some kind. She can see even through the bad quality that he's older than she remembers, beard and hair more grey than dark.

“He did it,” Greer says, voice breaking. “He-- he used to be a professor, in Edinburgh, but he had to leave, and..” The tears are falling readily now, shoved out by a burst of pride and grief. “He never thought he'd be able to teach again,” she finishes, tone thready. “But he did it.” The date on the page tells her it was taken over ten years after she left.

There aren't many more pages after that, but she eyes one with particular interest. 'Fiona Thomson, mother of Greer Thomson, who has been missing for twenty years, dedicates her time in assisting local police to search for other missing persons...' She reads on, heart breaking as the article goes on to describe a small organization her mother had started that had gathered information from neighbors of the missing who might not otherwise speak with officers. 'This group has helped locate numerous missing persons, but never Mrs. Thomson's daughter, who hasn't been seen since November of 1916...'

And then, finally, the death notices and certificates. Her father had died at the age of sixty-three, and her mother had followed only two years later. Greer traces her fingers gently over the certificates, then pauses when there is another thing behind them. She flips the last papers over to discover a small manila envelope, and lifts questioning eyes to Helena.

“That is an original,” Helena says gently, gesturing to it. “I thought it could use a little more protection.”

“An original?” Greer asks, hardly daring to hope. She carefully opens the envelope and tips it; out slides a photograph, and there they are: Greer (in this photo, nine years old) and her mother and father and... “Maura,” Greer says, breathless. “Oh, oh.” She had forgotten about this photograph, the first she'd ever posed for. In Maura's arms is a small bundle, only a hint of a head poking through the blankets. “Duncan,” she murmurs, tears falling. “Where on earth did you find this? _How?”_ She can't tear her eyes away.

“You were saying their names in your sleep,” Helena says, slipping a hand into Greer's. “Her descendants still live in Edinburgh, and they're still called Thomson. Her granddaughter had this.”

“She couldna have wanted to part with it,” Greer says, surprised.

“And that is where you would be wrong,” Helena replies. “Apparently Maura here was quite a controversial figure, in her time. Rumours abounded. Her granddaughter was all too happy to donate it to my research project.”

“Wait,” Greer says, mind backtracking. “They're called Thomson? Not Sweeney?”

“Well, Duncan there was Thomson, so he passed on his given name when he married.” Helena's keen eyes catch Greer's. “He was your half-brother, wasn't he?”

“Aye,” Greer says, sighing.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

Greer shakes her head. “It hurts,” she replies simply. “I never was able to know him, not really. He was only three going on four when we left Scotland.”

“The granddaughter had other photos of him,” Helena begins after a long silence. “I couldn't convince her to let me take those, but I took pictures of them.” She slips her phone from her pocket. “Would you like to see?” At Greer's nod, she unlocks the screen and navigates to the photo album.


	9. Sissy

“ _Careful!”_ Helena is watching Greer heft around crates in storage, and her heart keeps skipping beats. Some of the crates are half as big as Greer is, and given they're wooden, can't be terribly easy to maneuver.

“I'm.. fine,” Greer grunts out between exertions, lugging one to a new stack. After she's placed it, she says, “If ye'd help me, there'd be less risk, ye know.”

“It's dusty in here,” Helena says, feeling mildly called out, “and I have a meeting in an hour.”

Greer pins her with a wry look before grappling with the next crate. “Is the meeting not at the B&B? Where you have many changes of clothes?”

“Clothes are all well and good, but dust does show rather well when you have black h-- _agh!”_ Helena exclaims as Greer wobbles under the weight of her newest burden.

“Oh you big sissy,” Greer says, shaking her head from behind the crate.

“ _Hey.”_

Greer grins and ignores the wounded tone. “Get me that ladder, sissy. This one's out of place.”

Helena does with her nose in the air. “I strongly dislike this new nickname, I'll have you know.”

“Won' call you something ye aren',” Greer mutters with a quirked lip as she adjusts the ladder with a foot.

“Ignoring that,” Helena says, tone distinctly disapproving, “how on earth are you going to get that thing up there?”

“It's only the third shelf,” Greer replies, resettling the crate in her arms, biceps cording at the effort. She glances over to see Helena staring dazedly at her upper arms like she's never seen them before. _Maybe that'll shut her up,_ Greer thinks with an internal smirk. She carefully navigates the rolling ladder-- which is really more of a giant staircase than anything-- and takes the first two steps easily. The third gives her trouble, and she feels the crate swaying to the side. She quickly corrects, but--

“ _GREER!”_

Greer lands the box on the shelf at last, then puts her hands on her hips and turns to look down at Helena, brows furrowed. “Woman,” she says, sternly, “if I hadna been expecting ye to shout, ye'd have made me lose my balance for certain. _Christ,_ you English.”

“Excuse me?” Helena says, arms folding. “Perhaps I should say, you Scots and your stubbornness.”

Greer laughs, descending the ladder. “The Scottish havena cornered that market, and the way I know it is you, standing in front of me, being as un-Scottish as I've seen.” She snorts, walking past for the next crate. “Crying out at every wee stumble,” she mutters, then, “Hey!” as Helena grabs her by the arm.

“You,” Helena says, a finger in Greer's face, “are not allowed to go crushing yourself under fifty pounds of wood.”

Greer, feeling a little attacked, says, “That? I'd say that was at _least_ seventy--”

“Not funny,” Helena insists, face deadly serious as she places the finger against Greer's lips. “You are _not_ going to die in this place.”

“Whoa, hey,” Greer says, softening as she realizes that this is not angry Helena. This is _scared_ Helena. She kisses the finger then grasps the accompanying hand in her own. “I had it. I'm not so stubborn as not to ask for help when I need it.”

“Oh really?” Helena asks, eyebrows high and pinched at the middle with worry.

“Well,” Greer hedges, “some kinds of help.” She cups Helena's cheek, the corner of her mouth twitching. “I dinna want to be a pancake any more than you want me to, anyway, and _I'd have asked.”_

Helena is easing down from the panic, but she is left, as always, unsteady in its wake. “I worry, you know. You-- I don't know how to watch you lift things as big as you are and not _worry.”_

“There's a reason I'm so fit,” Greer says with a lecherous grin, trying to distract Helena away from the solemnity. “I've been working out with Pete lately, too, so I'm even stronger than I was. Want to see?”

“Ah,” Helena says, torn. The last thing she wants is Greer injuring herself trying to impress, but there is a part of her that had been fascinated by the knots bulging in Greer's biceps and forearms. “Is it going to involve more crates and shelves?”

“Nope,” Greer says, the grin widening as she pulls Helena away from the shelf, eyes evaluating Helena's frame critically. “C'mere.”


End file.
